


The Coat of a Single Colour

by incapricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-11
Updated: 2011-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out the hard way that Sherlock's coat is magic, more or less.  [Crack that turns into J/S because THAT'S HOW MY BRAIN WORKS]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coat of a Single Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by beetle_breath at the LJ comm holmesverse (which is awesome fun), for the "prompt party" challenge: "I'd like to see a fic where Sherlock's coat has magical powers (maybe it helps him solve crimes, maybe it helps him repel bullets, maybe it just makes him look very attractive) but John doesn't know this until he tries on the coat when Sherlock is not home. Hijinks ensue."
> 
> Thanks to kaalee for being my writing partner and cheerleader. <3

"Sherlock! Wait a minute... I need to... catch my breath." John leans against a tree, feeling the bark bite into his back through the thin layer of his t-shirt. The air around him is stifling and thick.

There is a crackle of twigs as Sherlock jogs into view from between the trees. He is breathing evenly and seems to have hardly broken a sweat. John shakes his head, taking deep gulps of air and waiting for his heart to stop hammering. "You... are not normal, do you know that?"

Sherlock smiles in a way that usually means he is keeping something from John. John, however, is not the least bit curious, his curiosity having melted out of his head about halfway through this ill-advised three-mile jaunt through the forest.

"God, it's really hot. I know they said it might set records, but this feels like it might even set a record in the Sahara."

"Hardly. Are you ready? Thirty seconds more delay and we'll have very little chance of catching him unless we pick up our pace substantially."

John wipes off his forehead with the back of his hand. "How much further, do you think?"

Sherlock's eyes turn calculating for a moment. "Here," he says finally, "take my coat." He shrugs it off in a smooth motion, holding it out to John, the bottom of it dragging through leaves and dirt.

"Are you _insane_? What I need is a cold drink, or an air-conditioned room, or... a swimming pool filled with ice cubes, not a bloody wool overcoat."

"Fine," says Sherlock, having the gall to look exasperated at John for not wanting to hasten his imminent death-by-heatstroke. "I'll meet you back at the inn. I trust you can find your way?"

"I think so," says John, but Sherlock has slipped on his coat and run off again before the sentence is even out of John's mouth.

::-::-::

Upon their return to London, Sherlock spends roughly a day gloating insufferably. After pursing the killer for four more miles, he finally caught him lying in a small stream. "I give up," the man said, Sherlock reported. "As long as it's cooler in jail than it is outside and I don't need to run anymore."

But after the day of ebullience, Sherlock lapses into his traditional post-case malaise, dragging about the flat and getting on John's nerves even more than usual. So John is thrilled when, after a week of moping, Sherlock receives a letter from a wealthy widow in southern Spain, asking for his help determining which of her grandchildren stole her prize collection of dollhouse furniture without being caught by the security cameras or motion detectors.

It's early in the afternoon. John is reading the paper, still in his pyjamas. He's looking forward to having a quiet, peaceful day. Maybe he'll pop in a load of laundry later, but otherwise the plan is: finish the paper, watch some telly, have a nap, and then a nice dinner.

"It should be a simple enough case. I've already narrowed the suspect list down to seven. I expect I'll be home the day after tomorrow," Sherlock says, standing by the door with a small leather valise in his hand.

"Great. Have fun!" John says absently, going back to his paper the instant Sherlock turns to leave.

Less than a minute later, the door swings open. John looks up, expecting Mrs Hudson with some gossip about the neighbours. But no, it's Sherlock.

"John," he says slowly, "where's my coat?"

"Your coat? Oh. I took it to the cleaners a few days ago. It was filthy from your little jog in the forest, have you ever even-- what's the matter?" John stops to ask, because Sherlock is making a face like someone has intentionally broken his favourite microscope.

"Why would you-- that's _my_ coat, it's none of your concern whether it's got a little mud on it!"

"I'm sorry, it was very inconsiderate of me--"

"Yes it was!"

"--to try to do something nice for you. It won't happen again."

Sherlock closes his eyes, and John watches him take three breaths, each slower than the last. "Which cleaner?" he says, seeming calmer. "That place two streets over? I suppose I can pick it up on my way to the airport."

"Oh. Well..."

"John, what have you done?"

"Nothing! I took your coat to be cleaned, that's all. The woman there said it was a really nice coat, and I agreed, and she asked if I wanted some sort of special treatment they do to fine wool, and it sounded all right, so I agreed, and..." John looks at the floor for a second. He expected Sherlock to be pleased, or at least neutral, or maybe not even notice, but he never anticipated anger. "... I believe it's been sent to somewhere in Cumbria."

"Cumbria. My coat is in Cumbria."

"Yes."

"Well, then. Thank you so much for that, John. Now I'll have to make do without," Sherlock snaps, before turning and walking back out the door.

"Best of luck!" John shouts after him. "You're going to the south of Spain in summer, I'm not sure how you'll survive without heavy wool!"

Not two hours later, of course, the woman from the cleaners phones to say the coat is ready and can be picked up at any time. John looks at his watch, wondering if Sherlock's flight has taken off yet. Even if not, it's unlikely he'd make it on time, even if he takes the express train.

Why is he even thinking about this? It's a coat. Sherlock will be fine, despite his tantrum. Still, John may as well pick it up so it's there when Sherlock returns. John reluctantly pushes himself out of his chair and goes to get dressed.

When he comes home, he hangs up the coat on one of the hooks by the door, right where Sherlock can't possibly miss it. The cleaner did a nice job; it looks immaculate. He runs a hand along it, feeling the smooth fine wool, fingers stopping to trace around a buttonhole. He has so many memories associated with this thing -- some good, some terrifying, all Sherlock.

Smiling a little, John takes the coat off the hook and slips it on. It feels nice. Comforting. Not too warm, despite the season. No wonder Sherlock likes it so much.

Time to do that laundry now, John thinks.

::-::-::

At three in the morning, John turns off the telly. "Why aren't I tired?" he asks.

The skull on the mantle stares at him as if it knows but isn't telling.

::-::-::

At half six in the morning, John has just finished cleaning out the refrigerator. It's never been cleaner, at least not since he and Sherlock moved in. There is a carton in the bin that John has no intention of opening, on the off chance that the label is accurate and not Sherlock's idea of a joke.

It makes sense that he isn't hungry after that job, but... did he eat dinner? Or lunch? He doesn't think so. Isn't it breakfast time, just about?

John shrugs and moves on the freezer. He's bound to feel like eating eventually.

::-::-::

"And then I found a bag of toenails under that--" John is saying. Lestrade hangs up again. John giggles and redials his number.

It goes to voicemail. John finishes his recounting of the contents of the bottom desk drawer, hangs up, and then notices the sun is setting. Or is it rising? He can't really tell. He watches it for a while.

It's definitely setting. He apparently just spent twenty-four hours cleaning the flat. No wonder everything is so shiny.

"I should sleep," he says to no one in particular.

He's not in the least bit tired, but he is a doctor, and he remembers the day in medical school when they learned about the effects of sleep deprivation: not pretty. Not pretty, unlike the fire burning in the fireplace, or the sun glinting through the windows, bathing the grimy London streets in yellow and orange. That's pretty.

Yes, he needs to sleep. But...

"Not in the coat, it will wrinkle," John announces to the room. He walks towards the doorway, shrugging the coat off his shoulders. He's sad to take it off, but Sherlock will be so mad if--

"Oh my God," he says, nearly falling from the weight of his own body. He can barely stand. He starts to shake, trembling from his legs up to his jaw. As he hangs up the coat, his vision blurs. He's sweating, and... he's _starving_ , so much so that he almost feels nauseated. He puts a hand to the side of his neck, feeling for his pulse. It's shallow and fast, but steady. His skin is burning hot. Is it a virus? Must be. Something short-lived, hopefully.

He staggers across the room, managing to get to the couch before falling over. Once he is horizontal, he groans in satisfaction. That is so much better than standing. So much better...

As his eyes shut and his consciousness begins to recede, he realizes he is desperately horny. His erection is so hard it hurts. But... that can't compete with the exhaustion washing over him.

Later... he'll deal with it later.

::-::-::

John becomes aware of noise, and light. His mouth feels like he recently ate a bucket of sand, and tastes like the sand was mixed with carrion and old coffee grounds.

"Are you with me, John?" asks a voice. "How long did you wear it?"

"Sherlock?" asks John, feeling lost, but recognizing the voice. Sherlock must be home. So John must be home, too. He opens his eyes.

"Yes. Hello. Drink this," Sherlock says -- for it is indeed he, kneeling on the floor next to the couch, one hand holding a glass filled with some sort of clear liquid.

"What is it?"

"... it's water, John."

"Oh. Thanks, I'm... parched, actually." John sits up. The room spins around him. His stomach gurgles, complaining of its emptiness.

"Yes, you would be."

John gulps down the entire glass. It's cool and crisp and also the most refreshing thing John has ever experienced. "I thought you were in Spain," he says once he has finished the water.

"Yes. I was, and now I'm here."

"So the case was quick, like you thought."

"I was gone four days."

"Really?" John frowns. "It didn't seem like it."

"How long did you wear it?"

"Sorry, what?"

"My coat. More than a day, obviously. Two? Two and a half? Can't be three or you'd be in a coma."

"I... can't see why that matters, unless you think I caught whatever virus this is from the coat."

Sherlock tilts his head slightly, like he is waiting for John to figure something out. He _does_ think the coat is the cause. Why? John tries to get his mind to put the pieces together. "Was... the coat contaminated? Did the cleaners put something on it?" He has a sudden thought. "Oh God, do you think it was poisoned? Someone trying to get to you, or--"

"No, John, listen."

"--maybe it was Moriarty, he can't really be gone that easily. I'm so stupid, I can't believe I fell for that line about 'special cleaning' I mean--"

"John."

"--that can't be a real thing. Cumbria, seriously? Should we take samples? There might still be--"

"It's a magic coat, John."

"--a residue, sorry? Did you say 'magic coat'?"

"Yes."

"I see. Very funny. You're testing me to see how gullible I am. That's not very nice when I'm in this state."

"My coat has a special property. It meets basic, shall we say _human_ , necessities. Food, water, warmth, sleep. Even sex."

"You have sex with your coat."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No. The coat meets those needs by making you _not_ need them. It doesn't actually feed you, it keeps you from being hungry. Or thirsty. Or tired. Or too hot, or too cold. It does the same thing with sexual appetite."

"Right."

"You don't believe me."

John wonders if he should go back to sleep. "Of course I don't believe you. You're telling me your coat... is magic."

"Yes."

"No."

"Think about it, John. Why else do you think I take so little sleep when I'm on a case? Why do I almost never need to eat? Why do I rarely masturbate?"

"Well, I didn't know that last bit, but otherwise, I thought you were... you know."

"What?"

John feels a slight flush spread over his cheeks. "I thought you were one of those rare people. Special. Different. Extraordinary." There is something in Sherlock's face in that moment that makes John say, "Although... even if your coat is magic, you still are those things, I suppose. ...Unless the coat solves crimes too?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkles. "Of course not!"

"Right. How could I even suggest it?"

"So you believe me?"

"No."

Sherlock stands up, exhaling crossly, and walks away. He returns with his coat in his hands. "After the length of time you wore it, it's dangerous to wear it again so soon, but ten seconds or so shouldn't hurt much. Here." Sherlock holds the coat open, clearly intending to put it on John himself.

It takes some effort to get up off the couch. John's body is sore and tired, and his stomach is still complaining and, he sees as he stands up, his erection has returned even stronger than it was before he fell asleep. "Um. I don't... this doesn't..."

"Don't worry. Normal side-effect, it will pass in a day or so."

John eyes Sherlock warily and allows him to pull the coat onto him. A few seconds later, he feels less tired, less sore, even less hungry. His penis has even begun to soften a little.

Then Sherlock removes the coat, and John falls over, landing half on the couch and half on the floor, stomach twisting.

"Sherlock. You have a magic coat," he says in wonderment. How could that be possible?

"I know."

"Where... where did you get a magic coat?"

Sherlock shrugs and drapes it over his arm. "I got it from a very old gentleman I met in Cardiff some years back. It's a long story."

"I'd like to hear it."

"I'm sure you would," says Sherlock, and then nothing more.

John takes a few moments to contemplate that he has essentially been drained of life force by an article of clothing.

"I suppose it's tailored to your metabolism or something? Is that why I got so ill from wearing it?"

"Oh no, nothing that sophisticated. You simply wore it too long. The human body can only withstand so much of... this sort of thing. I had to build up my tolerance over the course of a year to be able to wear it for six hours without side effects. I rarely wear it more than four in a single day. Makes me ravenous."

"It that why you always eat so much after a case?"

"Generally, yes."

"Huh." John thinks for a second. "Wait, you didn't have your coat with you this time."

"No, John, I didn't. My coat was in Cumbria."

John decides this is not the moment to tell Sherlock that actually, the coat was in London before his flight left the ground. "So, does that mean you had to eat three meals a day and get eight hours sleep like a normal person?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. "Six hours. But yes. I would have been home two days ago otherwise."

John finds this delightful. It's not that Sherlock isn't still a genius, but he is a _human_ genius, stopping for food at noon, or yawning and rubbing his eyes when the time approaches midnight. John can't quite picture him tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs every morning, though.

"And what about sex?" John asks, because his cock is hard again, and so naturally sex is on his mind. Along with food. And gallons of water. And a nice long nap under a fuzzy blanket.

"What about it?"

"You didn't have your coat."

"I believe that point has been made, yes."

"So, you're as horny as I am."

"I doubt that. You're rebounding, I'm just... normal." Sherlock says the last word as though it were a curse.

"Oh."

"Still pretty desperate, though. I'm not used to being without for so many days."

John laughs, and Sherlock looks puzzled. "It's just, when most people say that," John explains, "they would be referring to going without sex, but you mean 'going without wearing your coat'."

Sherlock smiles, then. "Do you want a sandwich?"

"God, yes. Twelve of them, please."

"Let's start with one and see how you do."

"I don't think we have any bread." John remembers tossing nearly everything out during his cleaning spree.

"It's fine. I did some shopping earlier when you were still asleep," Sherlock replies, walking towards the kitchen.

"So you probably noticed I threw away the packet of infected scabs."

"Those were croutons."

"Oh," John says, closing his eyes.

::-::-::

Later, after another nap and his fourth sandwich, John is beginning to feel less like he has thirteen simultaneous hangovers.

There's just one problem.

"Sex now?" Sherlock asks, as if he read John's mind.

John looks up sharply, still on the couch, wondering if he has fallen asleep again and is having a particularly strange dream.

"John?"

"Did... you just proposition me?"

"I did. We're both sexually aroused and attracted to one another. It's only logical."

"We are?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Really?"

"John," says Sherlock with the tone of someone speaking to a small child. "You didn't believe me about the coat, but I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yes," agreed John.

"I'm always right."

"Not always."

"Very nearly," amended Sherlock.

"Okay. I'll agree to that. So?"

"So I could spend the next half hour describing what I've observed, deducing what you feel, uncovering your hidden desires, until you believe me that not only are we attracted to one another, but also that we are likely to be very sexually compatible, or..."

John waits. "Or what?"

"Or, I could spend the next half hour with your cock pounding into me. Your choice," Sherlock says breezily.

John has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to fight back a rush of lust. "Sherlock," he says when he has regained some control again, "I already knew I was attracted to you. I just didn't know it was mutual."

"I thought my feelings were obvious."

"Nothing about you is obvious. Anyway, you said you were married to your work."

"I am."

"No, you're married to your coat."

"The coat is merely a tool. It keeps distractions at bay when I'm working."

"But you also wear it when you're not working."

"Sometimes, yes. ... It reduces distractions then, too. One in particular," Sherlock adds, locking eyes with John.

"Who, me?"

"Obviously."

"It really wasn't," John says, except now that Sherlock is looking at him, and John is looking back, it really kind of is.

Sherlock smiles. "So. Sex?"

"Absolutely. My bedroom?" John stands up, feeling completely ready to leave the couch at least.

"Definitely," Sherlock says. "My bed is... inaccessible at the moment."

"Too many body parts?"

"Books. I would never keep human remains unrefrigerated."

"That was a joke."

"I know. Not a good one though," Sherlock says as they walk across the room.

John shrugs. "Better than labelling croutons as scabs."

"... Actually, they really were scabs."

"That's disgusting."

As they pass through the door to the landing, John brushes his hand against the coat, which is hanging in its usual place.

::-::-::

Several hours later, John has another sandwich. Then he and Sherlock drift off to sleep, limbs tangled together, with the light of the moon streaming in through the window. John dreams of running through the forest, laughing and chasing after a gorgeous man in a billowing black coat.

Downstairs, the coat hangs from its hook and waits for its next adventure.

:: end ::

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that was an oblique Torchwood reference. Captain Jack and Sherlock both love a good coat...
> 
> (And for the record, it's not actually magic, it's alien technology, and Sherlock knows this, but he though given John's physical and mental state, he should just say "magic coat" and save the detailed explanation for later.)


End file.
